


Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

by spellboundcrown



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, a few other characters are mentioned briefly, actually they might all be ooc sorry, iwa-chan might be a little ooc but that's bc he and oikawa start off as strangers, someone pls teach these boys how to cook they keep eating pizza whenever they gather, there are a few ocs that go unmentioned but they're no really involved so don't worry about it, there is recurring alcohol use but it only ever results in mild hangovers, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellboundcrown/pseuds/spellboundcrown
Summary: After being jilted and scorned one too many times, Tooru swears to himself that he won't get hurt again. He's tired of looking for love in all the wrong places.So it's probably too good to be true when the perfect man moves in.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 18
Kudos: 57





	1. hard times

**Author's Note:**

> someday i will be able to title fics without using song titles/lyrics

_ Ugh. _ This is the absolute worst. Tooru holds back another sniffle, afraid it’ll turn into another sobfest. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing that he falls in love so hard so fast—loving people is actually really easy if one knows where to look.

And therein lies Tooru’s actual problem. None of the people he’d fallen in love with in all twenty-five years of his life had loved him back the same way, or the same amount, or  _ at all.  _ But still, sometimes they were better off as friends, like Makki and Mattsun. Tooru can’t always blame the other party.

This time, Tooru  _ will  _ blame the other party. He  _ does  _ blame the other party. Sometimes they’re better off unconscious in a ditch, like his latest ex.

Makki frowns at him, talking through a mouthful of pizza. “So wait, she was being super sketchy and promised she wasn’t seeing anyone else, but then another guy comes into the apartment and she promises  _ him _ that you’re no one?”

Tooru, Makki, and Mattsun are gathered in the modest living room of their shared residence. He sits at the end of their low coffee table, knees drawn up to his chest. To his right is the couch, where Mattsun is lounging comfortably with a vested interest in Tooru’s story. And directly opposite Tooru, Makki is vehemently devouring the other half of a large pepperoni pizza on Tooru’s behalf.

Tooru heaves another sigh, hoping to absorb some of Makki’s righteous anger through osmosis. “Yeah, but what sucks the most is that I was her no-strings side-dick. The guy who walked in was her fiancé, who was trying to surprise her while she was on a business trip.”

At that, Mattsun chokes on his beer. “Holy shit.”

“What the actual  _ fuck _ !” Makki screeches. A chunk of half-chewed pizza ends up on Tooru’s sweater, but he’s too emotionally drained to care and he flicks it off with none of his usual theatrics. “I hope he dumped her cheating, lying ass!”

A small, victorious grin tugs at the corner of Tooru’s mouth. “He did, after he got my side of the story. Made her return the engagement ring in front of me, then asked if he could at least buy me a round or ten for getting put through her bullshit.”

Satisfied with the outcome, Makki finishes off the slice of pizza he’d been eating intermittently while Tooru was talking. Mattsun stares a bit longer.

“Did he buy you ten rounds, though?”

“Mattsun, I brought home  _ ten cases _ of beer,” Tooru says slowly. “I didn’t pay for any of them. I didn’t pay for the pizza, either.”

Mattsun regards his beer bottle, offering another, quieter “holy shit” before taking another swig.

Tooru lets his head drop on the table with more force than necessary. “Another tally for Me Having Garbage Taste, I guess.”

“It’s not  _ all  _ garbage,” Mattsun responds. He pats at Tooru’s hair with his greasy pizza hands and Tooru bats him away. “You at least had enough taste to keep me and Hiro around.”

“Uh, sure,” Tooru snorts. “Sharing a house with two guys and crushing on both of them at the same time, only to find out they’re dating exclusively? Exquisite. My only saving grace is that you two were kind enough to not kick me out after.”

Makki waves a hand dismissively. “Water under the bridge. Besides, having you stay keeps the rent nice and low. And speaking of rent…”

Tooru and Mattsun groan, expecting the worst. The landlady has a bad habit of raising and lowering rent without telling them beforehand, meaning that the three of them had to cut into pocket money to make a few payments on time. She’d been consistent with the amount due in recent months, so a change was inevitable.

“No, it’s not the landlady,” Makki reassures them. “She promised a final rate starting this month, since we keep the house in good working order. But rent will still be cheaper per person.”

Tooru’s head shoots off the table. “We’re getting a new housemate? Officially?”

“Yup,” Makki beams, smug with the comfort of a lightened financial burden. “Yahaba’s totally-real-and-not-from-Canada boyfriend sent someone our way. I didn’t get any explanation past that, but the landlady gave me the heads up about our new roomie this morning. I’m pretty sure she wants this new guy to be her son.”

The idea of new and remotely attractive people coming into Tooru’s life should be appealing. Shame and hurt are still wringing out his heart, however, and the familiar throbbing of scorn turns his mind to self-preservation. Uncharacteristically, Tooru sniffs at the prospect of a tentative romance.

“No,” he whispers to himself. It must have come out louder than necessary, because Makki and Mattsun send him a curious glance. Tooru steels his newfound resolve and clarifies. “I’m not going to fall in love with him. Or anyone else. I’m tired of cultivating  _ nothing _ in almost every relationship. I’m tired of getting hurt, and I just…”

_ I just want someone to love me the way I deserve it. _

“...I just think it’s better if I stop looking.”

The alarm on Makki’s and Mattsun’s faces is owlish and almost funny. They share a concerned expression, something Tooru thinks shows their lack of faith.

“I mean it,” Tooru reiterates. “I won’t fall in love anymore.”

Makki and Mattsun nonverbally communicate at length. Their ability to converse entirely through eye movements is mesmerizing to Tooru, though currently he only finds it exasperating.

“Okay,” Makki finally says, slinging an arm around Tooru’s shoulders. “If that’s what you think is best for yourself.”

The affirmation takes Tooru by surprise; he thought they’d give more protest at the sappiest romantic swearing off love.

Mattsun ruffles Tooru’s hair with still-greasy pizza hands and pats him twice for good measure. “Don’t beat yourself up for it,” he advises. “While there’s nothing wrong with you  _ not _ falling, there’s also nothing wrong with tripping someone else.”

It takes him forty hazy, boozy minutes to figure out what the hell Mattsun means by tripping people so they fall, and another ten to calm down from the belly-aching laughter that follows. Isn’t Tooru’s track record clear enough? None of his exes had been hurt by their break-ups.

Tooru never managed to trip anyone.


	2. pain's more trouble than love is worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [enter IWAIZUMI]
> 
> [exit TOORU'S BRAIN]

Tooru wakes up around noon with a hangover and a puffy face. His emotions are all over the place, evident especially in the bathroom mirror’s ghastly reflection of himself. The numerous products scattered around the counter are almost mocking him, taunting him, as if to say: _who are you trying to look good for?_

The bitterness that lurks in the back of his throat grows. Aside from a very simple facial soap and an old brush, he shoves everything into the cabinets below, then raids the shower rack for all the expensive, specific shampoos and conditioners and body washes and scrubs.

_Out of sight, out of mind,_ he promises himself. The suddenly colorless and empty bathroom can be explained away as a cleaner, more minimalistic approach to his new lifestyle. The tiny voice in the back of his mind that whispers of fear and weakness and running away is drowned out in the shower.

He loses a solid 36 minutes fogging up the mirror in contemplation, steeling his resolve yet again. The landlady will stop by at around 2 with the potential fourth housemate. Tooru is doing his best to convince himself that this stranger will be the absolute worst in a preemptive attempt to soil any potential attraction.

His low-effort breakfast of cereal in coffee is halfway through when the doorbell rings. Tooru silently curses Makki and Mattsun for choosing today to go to the new pastry shop in the next town over, leaving him to contend with the newcomer alone.

Tooru pads his way to the front door, heaving a large sigh before opening the door.

“Hello, Yoshino-san, I—” Tooru cuts himself off. On the doorstep is someone who is definitely not their tiny landlady, made especially evident by thick, corded muscles and spiky hedgehog hair and the most captivating olive green eyes Tooru has ever seen on another human being.

_I won’t fall in love anymore._

The oath he made comes back to him before his dry tongue can spit out anything ridiculous. With an inconspicuous throat-clearing, Tooru excuses himself. “Sorry, I was expecting someone else. How can I help you?”

The stranger—the unfairly gorgeous stranger—offers a warm smile and his hand. “I’m Iwaizumi Hajime. Yoshino-san might have mentioned me, I’m here to check out the available room before making anything official.”

Stiffly, Tooru accepts a handshake, immediately hating how this guy checks all the boxes on a now-defunct list of potential partner criteria. A mental scream goes out to Makki and Mattsun while he thinks of something to say.

“Oh, hi,” he ekes out. “I’m Oikawa Tooru. Our other two housemates aren’t here right now, but I can show you around.” Iwaizumi must sense his apprehension somehow, because the air is thick as he removes his shoes in the doorway. Wincing to himself, Tooru comes up with a safe conversation topic. “Where is Yoshino-san? I thought she was supposed to bring you over.”

At this, Iwaizumi hums. “She did bring me as far as the front gate, but then she got a message about some other business that needed to be taken care of urgently. Didn’t say what it was, but she apologized and left.”

Knowing Yoshino-san, her sudden business may be related to another space she’s renting across town. It’s newer than the residence where Tooru, Makki, and Mattsun live, and is purported to be the cause of their permanently lowered rent rate.

“I see,” Tooru says. “Probably the new place at the other end of the city. Anyway, this hallway leads to the living room, dining room and kitchen, and on the left is the first-floor bathroom.”

Throughout the entirety of the tour, Tooru struggles with small-talk and the vow he’d made last night. A gut feeling tells him that Iwaizumi Hajime is a very good person—an _actual_ trustworthy individual, and not in the way Tooru has tried to defend a few of his past lovers. Iwaizumi, from what information Tooru can glean from his self-conduct thus far, is down-to-earth and self-confident, thinking carefully about the situation and taking in as much as he can before making any assessments.

Briefly, Tooru wonders what else he’ll learn about Iwaizumi in the coming months—years?—they’ll spend living under the same roof.

And so, half an hour passes by in this strained manner, despite Tooru’s best efforts to keep their conversation light and easy, and Iwaizumi definitely notices. Whether it’s because he’s too kind or too honest, he brings it up when Tooru fixes him a cup of tea before departing.

“I’m probably being presumptuous and a little rude, but are you okay? If I make you uncomfortable, I don’t want to impose on you. I’d understand if you’d rather I look somewhere else,” he says earnestly. His straightforward nature catches Tooru by surprise; far too many times in the past, Tooru’s had to walk on eggshells about terse situations like this, and he realizes only now how unhealthy those relationships had been.

“No, not at all,” Tooru sighs, shaking his head. “I know it sounds sort of cliché, but it really is just something I’m going through at the moment. Sorry if it unsettled you. I’d really like for you to consider moving in with us, though. Me and Makki and Mattsun.”

Iwaizumi studies him for a few moments longer and nods in satisfaction. “And you’re sure you and ‘Makki’ and ‘Mattsun’ wouldn’t mind having me?”

_I’d have you in a heartbeat,_ Tooru’s brain supplies. 

_Shut up,_ he tells it.

“We’d love to have you!” he exclaims with extra enthusiasm, in case Iwaizumi still isn’t convinced. A sudden thought breaks through his charade. “But I’m sure Yoshino-san already informed you about, um, our… preferences?”

Tooru doesn’t mean to sound so hesitant and unsure, but bringing up the matter of the house’s residents not being straight is always, always frightening, regardless of the reactions that follow.

Iwaizumi blinks, then throws his head back in genuinely amused laughter. Is Tooru supposed to be relieved or offended? Not knowing how to take Iwaizumi’s mirth means settling for a bewildered stare. After a short time, Iwaizumi stops laughing, though his wide smile remains.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes sincerely. “I thought Yoshino-san was laying it on thick when she was trying to sell me on living here, and now I know why. She didn’t mention anything about you or your roommates, but she knows I’m gay and was probably hinting about this being a safe space.”

It’s Tooru’s turn to gawk. In all the years he’s identified as anything other than straight (which is a lot of years) only a handful of people had been forthright with their own orientations like this. Makki and Mattsun are two of them, and a few of the people Tooru had known in middle and high school. Almost all of the men he’d dated had only done so in secret. None of them handled it the way Iwaizumi is handling it right now.

“Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me,” Tooru says softly, reverently. The awe he feels breaks into a grin, then a smile, until he’s beaming at Iwaizumi. The latter raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll take that as a good sign,” he jokes.

“Take it as an absolutely positive sign!” Tooru insists. He’s vibrating with the anticipation of screeching over this news with Makki later. “How soon should we expect you to move in?”

“How soon can I move in?”

“As soon as you throw your signed paperwork at Yoshino-san, Makki and Mattsun and I can help you!”

“Should you be volunteering your friends so easily?”

“Makki and Mattsun live here, they should be dying to help you move in, especially since you’re bringing down the rent rate per capita.”

The rest of the conversation flows with none of the previous unease and more promises of shared manual labor in the near future. It’s only when Tooru’s waved Iwaizumi off at the train platform that he realizes: his heart is fluttering like a bird. His good mood dissipates on the return home, mind full of reassurances that he’s just excited at the prospect of a new friend and a heavier wallet.

The eagerness with which he breaks the news to Makki and Mattsun is half-forced, his vow like a litany in the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i was thinking about taking this work down bc i was insecure about how in- or out-of-character everyone might be but like. this is an au of course things will be different so whatever. my city now.


	3. there's nothing else there for me at my door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart wants what the heart wants.
> 
> The brain wants the heart to stop wanting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been 8 months but this year has been an unmitigated struggle. and i don't really know where the story is going? i usually have a rough outline of all the events in a fic before publishing, but this one had a beginning and an ending and absolutely nothing in the middle. the nonexistent middle part is giving me trouble.
> 
> also: this chapter is dedicated to ao3 user elenvenfourtyam. your comment reminded me that this fic exists and that i love writing it despite all the hours i spend staring blankly at my word doc.

Less than two weeks later, Iwaizumi Hajime is officially moved in on a Saturday night. Makki and Mattsun _did_ end up fulfilling Tooru’s promise of manual labor, but only because Tooru inconspicuously put in more shifts at the café to avoid Iwaizumi. If any of them noticed, they said nothing about the matter.

 _Celebrating_ Iwaizumi’s residential status, however, is something that Tooru can’t escape through work. Makki’s suspicions of Tooru have risen with every rain check since Iwaizumi’s one-on-one tour, and missing this get-together will blast it through the roof. And so, Tooru is seated at one end of the coffee table in the living room, busily avoiding all of them under the pretense of swiping through his social media feed. At the other end is Iwaizumi, doing the same but in a less suspicious manner than Tooru is managing. Makki lounges on the couch, supervising them with a smug, cat-like grin.

Ugh. Knowing Makki, he’s probably thinking up ways to rile Tooru up. Jerk.

“Well,” Mattsun grins, walking in and brandishing one of Tooru’s remaining beer cases. On top of it are a few more bottles of things that are decidedly stronger than beer. “I figured we can use the rest of the evening as a welcoming party and interrogation.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, like he expected to get grilled, but he does so with the barest hint of a smile. “All right,” he concedes. “But don’t get your hopes up. You’re gonna have to _earn_ some of the information you want.” He glances at all the alcohol, the bare coffee table, and finally at his phone. “What kind of pizza do you guys like?”

Apparently, pizza takes priority over social bonding in this household. Makki and Mattsun impose a temporary drinking ban until the pizza arrives. Instead of pestering Iwaizumi about himself, they show him all of their favorite meme videos to get a gauge on his brand of humor as Tooru curls up and pretends he can’t see them.

Surprisingly, Iwaizumi’s humor very loosely lines up with theirs, which results in the occasional bark of laughter. It should be impossible for anyone to think Makki and Mattsun are funny, but Iwaizumi’s adorable laugh more than makes up for his terrible taste in comedy.

(And then Tooru screams internally over how he shouldn’t be thinking about Iwaizumi’s laugh or his being adorable, stopping only when the doorbell rings.)

“Ugh, finally!” Tooru huffs, and he pulls out his wallet as he reaches the door.

“I thought I was paying for the pizza,” Iwaizumi calls out after him, then immediately getting shushed.

“You shouldn’t be paying for our first meal as roommates,” Mattsun says.

Makki agrees. “Yeah. Consider it a housewarming gift from Tooru, who volunteered us all to help you and went AWOL when it came to the heavy lifting.”

Tooru snorts derisively at that and sets the pizza boxes down on the coffee table. “I paid for the pizza because the delivery person did me a favor by ending your prohibition laws.”

In an unsubtle manner, Makki leans over to Iwaizumi and stage-whispers, “Tooru’s a diva when he’s hangry.”

Tooru very maturely sticks out his tongue, then pulls out a bottle of Calpico and some flavored soju from the alcohol pile next to Mattsun. He’s aware that Iwaizumi is very closely watching him dump all of the soju into his cup.

“What’s the Calpico for?” Iwaizumi asks as Tooru unscrews the cap.

Well, it’s not like Tooru can ignore him forever, no matter how much he wants to. “This, young padawan,” Tooru sighs, adding much less Calpico than he usually does, “is how you drink properly.”

Iwaizumi pulls a face. “I’ll stick to beer, thanks.” And because Tooru has absolutely no self-control, he hands Iwaizumi the cup he just filled and starts on another.

“You’re going to need something stronger than beer if you’re going to survive Makki and Mattsun’s method of ice-breaking,” Tooru warns him.

Mattsun pats Iwaizumi’s shoulder and nods sagely. “I’ll try my best to hold Takahiro back, but no promises.”

“Alright!” Makki exclaims around a mouthful of pizza. “Our objective tonight is to learn as much about Iwaizumi as he’s comfortable with, and at the same time make him question his existence. Here’s the rules: we start simple and work our way from there. We pick a topic and guess what the answer is. Take a sip every time the answer is ‘no’ or if you guess wrong. If you wanna skip the topic,” he points at Iwaizumi, “you take a drink.”

“Listen, when I said you have to earn information, I didn’t mean twenty questions and shots.” Iwaizumi stares down into his deceptively innocent cup of Calpico and strawberry-flavored soju, brow slightly furrowed. Tooru can’t blame him—he knows how dangerous sweet cocktails can be.

(And yet, Tooru’s already halfway done with his first cup. “Sloppy drunk” isn’t the roommate stereotype he wants to embody, but it looks like that’s where tonight is heading.)

“Too bad,” Makki tells him in a sing-songy voice. “It’s fun, so it’s what we’re doing. Besides, Tooru’s got the first question and his brain cells die when he drinks.”

“That’s not true!” Tooru protests, sloshing his drink onto his shirt. He glances down and frowns. “Maybe it’s a little true.”

Iwaizumi snorts at him and takes a slice of pizza. “Okay, I’m game. But I have work tomorrow evening, so I call the shots on cut-offs and bedtime,” he declares, staring hard at Tooru for that last bit.

“Favorite food?” Mattsun suggests.

Almost two hours later (or at least Tooru _thinks_ it’s been two hours—any less time will make it embarrassingly clear how poorly he mixes with booze) Iwaizumi is still on his second bottle of beer. The cup Tooru gave him earlier is only halfway empty, and Tooru is very tempted to snatch it up himself.

They’ve also learned surprisingly little about Iwaizumi, mostly due to the fact that they’re terrible at twenty questions. Makki wasn’t entirely wrong about Tooru’s stunted thought process in the presence of alcohol and Mattsun keeps derailing the conversation in any number of tangential subjects. What they _have_ learned is mostly inconsequential stuff, like Iwaizumi’s favorite food, his favorite color, height, and what clothing store he shops at the most. (The answers are agedashi tofu, dark hunter green, 180.3 cm, and _Uniqlo_ of all places, which Mattsun rants about for nearly ten minutes.)

(“Listen, Iwaizumi, you’re a walking renaissance painting covered in a kindergartener’s crayon scribbles. Tell me your next day off, I’m taking you shopping.”)

But Iwaizumi has also skipped a fair number of topics, namely the more romance-centric ones: his idea of a perfect date, the number of people he’s dated, his _type—_ when Makki had argued that they might be able to introduce him to someone, Iwaizumi had put down his cup of Calpico-soju and chugged an entire bottle of beer without breaking eye contact. They’d all been too impressed to make a rebuttal and had moved away from the personal questions altogether.

Now, Iwaizumi is smirking like a superior jerk because they’ve wasted nineteen questions in ten minutes without figuring out what his job is, and the mystery of something so mundane is driving Tooru crazy. There’s little information to parse: Iwaizumi keeps a mostly regular work schedule, but he’ll be out for days at a time; he doesn’t always do his job at the same place; there are almost always injuries.

So far, the incorrect guesses are construction worker, truck driver, travel nurse, and (courtesy of Tooru’s sole, struggling brain cell) male escort. Needless to say, both Tooru and Iwaizumi had exploded in violent shades of pink while Mattsun and Makki discussed the possibility philosophically.

Mattsun’s got the last guess, and he’s staring down a pizza box as though he’ll be able to divine an answer from its grease stains.

“A hitman,” he offers hesitantly. Iwaizumi quirks an eyebrow in disbelief, and they all groan and take a drink.

“A hitman?” Makki repeats, squishing his boyfriend’s cheeks. “A hitman would make enough to afford a penthouse suite in the city! Or shop somewhere that isn’t Uniqlo!”

Mattsun pries Makki’s hands away, defending his last guess. “His biceps are huge and distracting and I’m out of ideas!”

The three of them turn to stare at Iwaizumi’s sculpted biceps, on prominent display as Iwaizumi rolls up his sleeves and inspects them himself with a frown. “They’re not _that_ big,” he says. “I only work out enough to stay in shape.”

Makki turns to him with a serious expression. “Until today, the only regular exercise in this household has been me and my darling Issei in our room”—Iwaizumi chokes on his drink, blushing fiercely—“so you’re a bodybuilder by comparison.”

Tooru watches Iwaizumi flounder at the sudden turn in conversation with equal parts amusement and pity. Feeling gracious, he chooses to redirect everyone’s attention the only way he knows how.

“Iwa-chaaaan,” he whines, slapping at the table. “Just tell us what your job is!”

Iwaizumi, still coughing, furrows his brows at Tooru. _“Iwa-chan?”_

“Your name has too many syllables and it doesn’t flow well,” he reasons, waving his cup. “And ‘Iwa-chan’ sounds cuter, which suits you because you’re so tiny.”

“I’m three centimeters shorter than you, Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbles over the lip of his bottle.

Tooru squawks indignantly. _“Trashykawa?”_

Iwaizumi mimics him, complete with a pinched, snooty expression and a whiny voice. “‘Trashykawa’ sounds better, which suits you because your nicknaming sense is garbage,” he drawls with a dramatic flourish of his empty hand.

Tooru decides to forgive Makki and Mattsun for not defending him since it looks like they’re dying, even if only from laughing so hard. Instead, he pouts at Iwaizumi. “I refuse to be called Trashykawa,” he declares, leaning over the coffee table to level Iwaizumi with what he hopes is an intimidating glare.

Iwaizumi matches his posturing, quirking up a corner of his mouth at Tooru. “I refuse to be called Iwa-chan.”

He wrinkles his nose at Iwaizumi’s smug face. “Agree to disagree.”

“Glad you see it my way,” Iwaizumi grins, taking a rather large swig from his bottle. “Takes a lot of self-awareness to admit your nicknaming sense is garbage.”

“Takes a lot of self-awareness to admit you’re still three centimeters shorter than me!”

“I can’t do anything about my height,” Iwaizumi grouses.

“Get heel inserts, wear platform shoes,” Tooru retorts, leaning over the coffee table, “or maybe grow your hair out so your spikes are taller.”

“I could just keep destroying your ego instead, it might make your big head smaller.”

A snort from the direction of the couch breaks their childish staring contest. “Ugh, really?” Makki asks in mock disgust. “Right in front of my salad?”

Iwaizumi blinks at him, then flatly points out, “That’s a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza.”

Makki pulls another face and waves a hand dismissively. “Semantics, you sweet summer child.”

“Ugh, _I-wa-chaaan_ ,” Tooru whines again, deliberately dragging out the syllables. “Could you at least give me a tiny hint about your job so I can go to sleep?”

Iwaizumi considers it for a moment. “...Public service.”

Tooru stares back. “Iwa-chan, that’s so _vague._ And it sounds kind of ominous. Are you sure you’re not a hitman?”

“I’ll hit _you_. And you asked for a tiny hint, so you got a tiny hint.”

“Fine,” Tooru sniffs, resigned to work with the very little information he has. “Public service just means it serves society as a whole, right? It’s probably temp work at a desk job.”

There’s no way in hell it’s temp work at a desk job, but the snort that bursts out of Iwaizumi makes Tooru feel warmer inside. “Aside from my boss’ desk, the desks I see are usually broken.”

“So you _are_ a hitma—I’m sorry, Iwa-chan, it was a joke!” Tooru screeches. He’s not entirely _sure_ if Iwaizumi’s going to chase him, but the glare directed Tooru’s way is threatening enough to make him scramble up from the coffee table. If Tooru had been sober, he probably would have escaped much more gracefully. Instead, his drink-induced jelly legs send him sprawling face-first into the couch as Iwaizumi watches with wide-eyed concern from his firmly planted seat on the floor.

Makki and Mattsun are absolutely no help, opting to laugh at Tooru’s poor coordination. Iwaizumi gingerly peels Tooru’s mostly limp form off the couch cushions, those damnable olive green eyes gently checking him for any obvious injuries. After far too much fussing on Iwaizumi’s end, he sends Makki and Mattsun off to bed. Mattsun makes a big show of groping Makki’s butt and waggles his eyebrows at Iwaizumi, who ignores the goading but can’t fight the blush off his face.

The immediate thought in Tooru’s auto-pilot mind is, ‘ _Ah, now I can go to sleep.’_ His second thought is, ‘ _Iwa-chan must be lying about not being a hitman. No_ normal _person carries dead-weight drunks around so easily.’_

Because that’s what Iwaizumi is doing. Right now. Carrying Tooru. In this case, the broken connection between brain and mouth is working wonders in Tooru’s favor, otherwise Iwaizumi would hear how equally pissed and impressed Tooru is at being slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The connection between Tooru’s auto-pilot and the rest of him is working just fine, though, which is unfortunate since Iwaizumi’s very firm back is directly in Tooru’s field of view. And Iwaizumi is too busy trying not to drop Tooru down the stairs to keep him from tracing all his muscles.

Once they reach Tooru’s bed, Iwaizumi carefully deposits his cargo. Despite his best efforts, Tooru’s head still feels like it’s spinning, and Iwaizumi double checks to make sure he doesn’t need an ambulance. After, the door closes with a soft click and Tooru drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Tooru wakes up with a mild hangover. His brain feels like it’s been replaced with melted jello, but that’s better than waking up outside wearing one shoe and a crop top he doesn’t recognize. Unfortunately, jello brain isn’t enough to erase the memory of his embarrassing self-conduct from last night. Tooru groans and pushes the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

He _really_ has to apologize to Iwaizumi for suggesting that he’s a male escort, then feeling up his back five minutes later.

And he’d fallen asleep with his contacts in again! Tooru grumbles at his past self for not taking them out after work yesterday. His contacts case and glasses should still be on the nightstand, though, so Tooru reaches out as his eyes adjust to the morning light spilling in.

Except he finds a glass of water and an aspirin on a note that reads: _you drool in your sleep. made breakfast._

Tooru heaves a sigh and takes the aspirin, draining the glass after and simultaneously feeling better and worse. Glasses and contacts case in hand, he drags himself to the bathroom.

He tries not to think about how last night was an exercise in futility. Instead of squashing any budding feelings, Tooru had only proved why Iwaizumi is the ideal candidate for his next heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live for iwaoi banter and i'm glad these morons are so naturally drawn to each other and show affection through insults
> 
> btw what the fuck is a consistent writing style


	4. 'cause i'm trying and trying to walk away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever gotten so caught up in the moment that you did something you forgot you weren't supposed to do?

After a brief internal screaming match with his bespectacled reflection, Tooru calms down and reassesses his situation.

Iwaizumi is downstairs with breakfast. Tooru can handle breakfast. But first, he needs to brush his teeth and change into clothes that don’t reek of last night’s bad decisions.

Once his mouth no longer smells like death, Tooru decides that he can forgo a shower for a few more hours. As he shucks off his grimy-feeling jeans, his phone falls out of the back pocket. Tooru immediately drops to his knees to pick it up, letting out a string of curses and praying to whatever deities are listening that he hasn’t cracked the screen _again_. It won’t turn on, which means it’s either dead or broken beyond repair.

Suddenly, the bathroom door swings wide open and Iwaizumi lets out a strangled yell of, “Oika—!” before he freezes. Just as quickly, he yelps an apology and slams the door shut. If Tooru weren’t so embarrassed at literally being caught with his pants down, he’d think the shade of Iwaizumi’s blush was flattering.

Tooru waits until the thudding of footsteps descending the stairs stops, then hurriedly pulls his jeans back up and sprints into his room to change there instead.

It takes another five minutes for Tooru to re-gather his nerves enough to face Iwaizumi. Phone charger in hand, he tries for casual as he strides into the kitchen. Thankfully, Iwaizumi seems to catch on and only comments, “I didn’t know you wear glasses.” …Though he’s having trouble even glancing in Tooru’s direction and the visible parts of his face are bright red.

There are plates of bacon and scrambled eggs on the dining table, and a rice cooker is steaming away on the counter. “How American of you,” Tooru jokes, plugging his phone in next to the rice cooker.

“Gimme a break,” Iwaizumi retorts playfully, blush beginning to fade. He leans against the counter, finally sending Tooru an exasperated half-smile, and opens the nearly empty fridge. “That was all you guys had. If you stop grocery shopping like broke college students, I could make something better.”

“Ooh,” Tooru coos, plucking a plate and utensils from the dish rack. “You can cook! And I didn’t even have to get sauced to learn that.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He turns to the sink and gets started on washing the pans he’d used. Tooru’s in the middle of berating himself for mentally praising Iwaizumi’s initiative in contributing to household chores when his phone chirps its revival.

A huge weight lifts off Tooru’s back and his shoulders sag in relief. It would almost be cheaper to replace his phone instead of getting it fixed again, but he really wants to put his money towards his nephew’s college funds… and a few self-indulgent space-related things. Tooru would really like to spend breakfast reflecting on his financial responsibilities in total silence, but Iwaizumi looks like he’s working up the nerve to say something. It’s probably about what just happened upstairs in the bathroom, so Tooru does his best to pretend he doesn’t notice the tension in the air.

Suddenly, his phone pings several times in quick succession, no doubt flooding with all the alerts that piled up while it was dead. What a shitty blessing in disguise. Tooru gets up to see how many people are bothering him on a Sunday morning—morning? It’s barely past eleven, which is a pleasant surprise. Hangovers usually put Tooru out of commission until one in the afternoon.

Before he can think too much about how Iwaizumi is probably a good influence, Tooru scrolls through all the lovely texts he’s gotten from Yahaba (mostly complaints about how much restocking Tooru didn’t do before clocking out yesterday) and the message spam from Makki, who’d sent a grocery list one item at a time because he’s a heathen. Tooru scrutinizes the list with an increasingly displeased grimace. It takes a few rings for Makki to pick up.

_"Is Tooru okay?”_ Makki asks, clearly concerned. The question catches Tooru off guard and he flounders a bit before answering.

“I’m paying the price for last night’s bad decisions, but I’m okay otherwise,” Tooru answers. “Were you expected someone else to call from my phone?”

_"Oh,”_ Makki says. _“You never recover this fast, and I forgot to exchange numbers with Iwaizumi, so I thought… never mind. Anyway, what’s up?”_

“Why did you ask for ten frozen pizzas? We just had pizza last night, and my arteries are starting to clog.”

_"Well, none of us can cook. Issei’s kitchen skills only apply to baking. And there’s four of us now, so unless we suddenly do fancy things like meal planning, frozen pizza will have to be emergency dinner.”_

“…Fine,” Tooru concedes. “But I’m only getting three.” Makki blows a raspberry then rudely hangs up on Tooru. If he was _really_ worried about Tooru’s well-being, he wouldn’t be making Tooru go outside before noon.

Iwaizumi’s still staring awkwardly, his hands laced together in front of him as though he’s not quite sure how to stand casually. The determined look in his eyes hasn’t faded in the least, but he forgoes bringing up the incident upstairs to ask Tooru if the call was about anything serious.

“Nah, just Makki making sure I’m alive enough to get everything on his stupidly incomprehensible grocery list,” Tooru answers flippantly. He sets his phone back down to finish charging and returns to his half-eaten breakfast. “I don’t think we even have enough space in the freezer for three frozen pizzas.”

Iwaizumi’s eyebrows draw together in confusion and he moves towards the fridge again. “How could you not have room in the freezer if there’s barely anything in the—” He cuts himself off as he pries the freezer door open.

A weak sense of shame washes over Tooru at the sight of the freezer, stuffed full with packs of various pre-made meals that require only a brief stint in the microwave or oven before consumption. It’s been so long since he’d made an effort to eat a barely homemade meal that Tooru’s not even remotely sure what all is there. Half the things inside are almost definitely expired.

Iwaizumi’s expression morphs from shock into a grave sternness, which he directs at Tooru. Sheepishly, Tooru offers him a placating smile. Rolling his eyes, Iwaizumi turns back to the freezer and begins excavating, making sounds of disapproval with nearly every item removed. He pauses, shakes out his hands, and nudges the trash bin closer with his foot.

Tooru listens to his displeased mutterings as he gulps down the rest of his breakfast. Sensing Iwaizumi’s increasingly sour mood, he quietly picks up his plate and utensils, giving them a precursory rinse in the sink.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi calls, pulling his gaze from the overfull trash bin to meet Tooru’s eyes. His tone is steeped in deep concern. “There’s next to nothing in the fridge or the cupboards and almost everything in the freezer went bad months ago. What are you guys eating? _How_ are you eating?”

“Oh,” Tooru says, surprised. He’d expected Iwaizumi to be angry about the state of the freezer, not worried about his new housemates’ health and eating habits. “Well, Mattsun works at a patisserie and I work at a café with a brunch menu, so sometimes we bring home food from there. Mostly we order takeout. We try to eat out at least once every two weeks.”

Iwaizumi spends a few seconds digesting this information, pressing his mouth into a thin line. He turns back to the freezer, then pulls the fridge door open again. “None of you know how to cook,” he says firmly. It’s not a question and was likely said aloud to cement the reality of the situation. Sighing, he closes the two doors. “Have any of you tried?”

“We’ve tried,” Tooru nods, tugging at a lock of hair curling against his cheek. “It, uh, never goes well. And we’re not risking the fire department getting called on us a third time.”

At that, Iwaizumi’s eyes widen almost comically. “That means the fire department was called over _twice_ ,” he reasons. “What exactly did you _do_ to this kitchen?”

Tooru’s nose scrunches up defiantly. “Excuse you, _I_ only had to throw out the non-stick pan I ruined! Makki and Mattsun are the ones who nearly exploded the oven on two separate occasions!”

Iwaizumi scrubs a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “How are any of you alive? I’m not even going to ask about the oven, but what did you do to ruin a pan so badly it had to be thrown out?”

Ah, fuck. Tooru walked right into that one. The embarrassment over that particular cooking attempt still hasn’t faded after three years. “…I tried to make a grilled cheese,” he answers quietly, crossing his arms. At Iwaizumi’s quirked brow, he elaborates. “…And I may or may not have put an individually pre-packaged cheese slice directly in the pan without removing the wrapper.”

All Tooru gets for his honesty is Iwaizumi hiding his mouth with one hand, failing to stifle a snort. “You—?” is the only thing Iwaizumi manages to get out before he starts laughing in earnest, pointing at Tooru.

The heat of embarrassment dissipates into something lighter that Tooru can’t quite place. “Yeah, yeah,” he huffs indignantly, crossing his arms. “At twenty-two, I decided to be more responsible and live like an adult. I thought, ‘I don’t need to look up how to make grilled cheese, there’s only two ingredients!’ and in my hubris I burned a plastic-wrapped cheese slice. Stop laughing, Iwa-chan! I haven’t been able to even _look_ at the grilled cheese in the café since then!”

Doing his best to comply, Iwaizumi manages to reduce his amusement to a wide smile. “Well, less than fifteen minutes ago you learned I can cook. That includes grilled cheese,” he says. Tooru has an argument on the tip of his tongue, but Iwaizumi holds up a hand to placate him. “I could walk you through it.”

Tooru merely sniffs, crossing his arms tighter. “Not everyone can be a well-rounded adult, Iwa-chan! I’ll have you know my strong points are—”

“I mean I can teach you how to cook,” Iwaizumi interrupts, leaning against the counter. “All three of you. At least enough to get you guys off your broke college student diet. Eating frozen food and take-out every day isn’t healthy.”

Like Tooru hasn’t heard _that_ a million times before. “Jeez, Iwa-chan, are you my mother?” he huffs under his breath.

Iwaizumi levels him with a glare that tells Tooru two things: 1) he clearly heard Tooru, and 2) is not amused by it. His self-preservation instincts kick in and he darts out of Iwaizumi’s grasp, screeching apologies.

“Just go get ready,” Iwaizumi orders, pushing Tooru out of the kitchen with a playful shove. “We have enough time to get groceries and start with something simple.”

People who can cook are fascinating. Tooru’s been obediently trailing after Iwaizumi at the supermarket for about half an hour, and they’re almost done shopping! It’s likely due to the fact that Iwaizumi traverses the aisles systematically, immediately knowing off-hand how much of any given ingredient they’ll need for whatever dish he’s planning. He’d also single-handedly vetoed two-thirds of Makki’s nonsensical grocery list, whittling the number frozen pizzas down to one. (“I don’t know why he wants four pounds of cream, but we’re not getting any.”) In any case, it’s more efficient than Tooru’s usual process of circling around aimlessly for one item at a time. It seems like a lot of trouble memorizing all those recipes and ingredients and amounts, though.

Iwaizumi’s mission mode only deactivates when they’re past the checkout counters, arms laden with less bags than Tooru had expected. “So how often _do_ you guys try cooking for yourselves?” he asks Tooru on the relatively short walk home.

“I gave up last year,” Tooru admits. “Makki and Mattsun try something almost every week, but they’ve been swamped at work lately so they haven’t had the chance yet this month.” Iwaizumi nods solemnly, probably imagining what past havoc has been wreaked in their poor kitchen. “And speaking of work…”

“You still haven’t given up on that?” Iwaizumi laughs, crooking a bemused smile at Tooru.

“Of course not! This is a matter of pride now,” Tooru insists, smacking his bag against Iwaizumi’s. “And you’re being so secretive that I’m starting to believe Mattsun was right about you actually being a hitman.”

The way Iwaizumi’s smug expression shifts ever so slightly can’t mean anything good for Tooru. “Right, because hitman is more believable than male escort.”

“Oh god, why’d you bring that up,” Tooru winces, heat creeping up the back of his neck. Since he’s unable to bury his face in his hands, he settles for resolutely looking anywhere but at Iwaizumi. “I’m really, really sorry about that. And for touching your back so much when you carried me.”

Iwaizumi gently bumps their elbows together. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s better than you vomiting down my shirt. Besides, I’m sorry, too.”

Tooru shoots a bewildered glance his way. “Sorry for what?”

“For, uh.” Iwaizumi breaks eye contact. His ears turn slightly red. “For this morning. I heard you get up, but it sounded like you passed out in the bathroom. I swear I didn’t see anything.”

“Oh.” Tooru had anticipated this conversation being much more painful and awkward. Instead, the apologies are over and done with, the embarrassment already dissipating. “Well, thanks for checking on me anyway.”

They walk the rest of the way in companionable silence. There isn’t any tension looming between them, and Tooru’s conscience isn’t burdened with the need to make any further clarifications. He can’t remember the last time anyone has made him feel so at ease.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi calls. “You can at least boil pasta, right?”

Tooru instantly recalls his last culinary venture, the one from last year that made him give up trying altogether. The way his nose scrunches up at the memory speaks for itself.

“Oh my god.”

Takahiro and Issei meet by chance at the station platform on their way home. Their eyes meet as soon as they both alight, and without a word they bolt for the street. The ten-minute walk to the station turns into a four-minute sprint as Issei pulls ahead and slaps the front gate to their house. He slumps against the low white brick wall enclosing the property, catching his breath as Takahiro half-heartedly jogs up.

“Issei, you bastard,” Takahiro rasps between breaths, leaning against the wall next to him. “You got a head start!”

“If you wanted to win the race, you should’ve boarded the car closer to the exit,” Issei retorts. After a few seconds, he heaves himself upright and presses a quick kiss to Takahiro’s cheek. “Welcome home, Hiro.”

Takahiro chuckles, reaching around Issei to unlatch the gate. “Welcome home, Issei.”

They make their way inside and are taking off their shoes at the entrance when they sense something… odd. It takes a few seconds for them to realize that there’s an awful lot of clattering coming from the kitchen, and Tooru’s yelp of pain sends them scrambling to talk him out of another potential fire hazard.

Only they find Tooru standing shoulder to shoulder with Iwaizumi at the stove, not a hint of smoke in sight.

Tooru yanks his hand off the saucepan’s plastic handle with a shout and shakes it out rapidly. Next to him, Iwaizumi clicks his tongue.

“You dumbass, I gave you the dishrag for a reason,” he scolds. He picks up the dishrag from where Tooru had tossed it on the counter, then wraps it around the handle. “This thing is old and there’s a screw on the underside.”

“You could’ve told me that,” Tooru pouts, blowing at a reddening spot on his index finger. The sounds of people running through the hallway alert him to the fact that Mattsun and Makki are home from work.

Iwaizumi glances at Tooru and sighs. “Go run some cold water on that.”

Tooru lets Iwaizumi take over the stirring and moves to the sink, following Iwaizumi’s instruction.

“Keeping Tooru’s track record with the fire department clean, Iwaizumi?” Makki asks, striding over to the stove with Mattsun in tow. Tooru wrinkles his nose at them.

“I nearly burned my finger making dinner for you ingrates and I don’t even get a ‘hi’?”

Mattsun smiles at Tooru. “Good evening, Your Majesty.” Then he wrestles the pasta ladle from Iwaizumi and scoops a bite into his mouth, humming in approval at the taste.

“Yeah, hi, but there’s no fucking way you made all of this on your own,” Makki says, leaning over Iwaizumi’s shoulder to squint at… whatever’s cooking. “What is this?”

“Chicken alfredo,” Iwaizumi answers dutifully. “Oikawa… helped.”

Mattsun nods in understanding. “I see. His Majesty boiled noodles while our valiant hero did all the rest of the work.”

“I didn’t set off the fire alarm once! _And_ I cut the chicken, thank you very much!” Tooru corrects him.

Iwaizumi’s brow furrows for what is probably the millionth time in their presence. “Are we in a castle now? Why does Oikawa get to be king?”

“You’re asking the right question!” Makki chirps. “Why _does_ Oikawa get to be king?”

“Because I’m obviously better than you peasants, that’s why!”

Mercifully, Mattsun turns to Iwaizumi to explain. “Oikawa’s king because… well, you’ve been babysitting him all day, I’m sure you can guess. Hiro’s the castle steward, I’m the baker.”

Iwaizumi turns off the stove, shaking his head. “I didn’t vote for him.”

“Nobody voted for him,” Makki responds. “He imposed his will, as all great kings do.”

“And rightfully so!” Tooru exclaims, turning off the faucet. He flicks water at Makki for good measure. “Iwa-chan, your lack of faith disappoints me! I _was_ going to make you my knight, but since you opposed my rule so openly, I have no choice but to demote you to scullery maid! …Scullery man?”

“Oh wow, that _is_ too bad,” Iwaizumi says flatly, pulling out three bowls and some tupperware. “Since I’m just the castle dishwasher now, I guess we’ll have to starve since no one else can cook.”

Tooru rushes over to help serve dinner. “I changed my mind!” he squeaks, taking the pasta ladle. “Effective immediately, Iwa-chan has been reinstated as knight and head chef! Makki, please mark the time for the royal archives.”

“Noted. On this day at five—”

“Fourteen, _shit_ ,” Iwaizumi hisses, bolting upstairs. His scrambling footsteps echo around the house as Makki, Mattsun, and Tooru listen in amusement. Not thirty seconds later, Iwaizumi thunders down with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, haphazardly shoving his keychain into a pocket. “I’m leaving for work now, I’ll probably be back tomorrow!” he announces, tying his shoes in the entryway. “Matsukawa, I’m free on Thursday.”

Makki quirks a brow. “Bold of you to ask my boyfriend out right in front of me.”

“What? No! He said he’d take me clothes shopping on my next day off!”

“Sure, likely story,” Makki teases, pushing Iwaizumi towards the door. “Now get out, you homewrecker!”

Iwaizumi sticks his tongue out in retaliation before rushing out, a move that is probably the result of overexposure to Tooru.

“You’re a bad influence,” Makki sighs at Tooru. “He was such a nice young man until he spent time with you.”

Tooru fights the urge to make a face at Makki, instead pointing the ladle at him. “Just eat your pasta.”

“Oh, Iwaizumi didn’t even get to enjoy the fruits of his labor,” Mattsun realizes, accepting a bowl from Tooru. “It’ll probably be gone tomorrow.”

Makki picks up the tupperware and holds it out for Tooru to fill. “Nah, I got it. I can just drop some off at his workplace.”

The ladle almost slips from Tooru’s grasp. “Iwa-chan told _you_ where he works?!”

“No, I used my big, beautiful brain to figure it out,” Makki says smugly. “I wasn’t kidding when I told Iwaizumi that your brain cells die when you drink.”

Tooru begrudgingly hands Makki the tupperware with a scowl, racking his brain for any details he might have overlooked regarding Iwaizumi’s job. Meanwhile, Makki kisses Mattsun goodbye and departs with a cheerful wave.

“Hey, can you make me dinner?” Mattsun asks, grinning mischievously.

Tooru narrows his eyes in caution. “I just made dinner. You walked into the kitchen and took a bite straight from the pot like a heathen.”

“Oh, I know,” Mattsun replies breezily. “Great job on the alfredo, but I’m in the mood for grilled cheese.”

Later that evening, as Tooru’s washing up the dishes, he reflects on the events of the day. The majority of it was spent with Iwaizumi, and he can already tell that a strong friendship is forming between them. Maybe Iwaizumi will end up being a lifelong friend like Makki and Mattsun, a neat fourth to even out the numbers of their group.

_Or maybe Iwaizumi will end up being another failed relationship._

Tooru scrubs at the saucepan harder and turns the faucet on full blast, hoping the noise will drown out his thoughts.

The romantic part of Tooru’s brain rattles the chains around his heart. _Isn’t Iwaizumi just full of surprises?_ it asks. _He fits into your life so well, not to mention he’s everything you’re looking for. He’s probably a gentle kisser, too…_

_Shut up shut up shut UP,_ Tooru thinks frantically. God, how pathetic is he that he can’t last even 24 hours in Iwaizumi’s presence without wanting to kiss him senseless? Was he always this weak-willed? How could he let his conviction crumble so easily in so short a time?

But no matter how he berates himself, Tooru knows in the deepest recesses of his mind that it’s too late.

He has a crush on Iwaizumi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four pounds of cream because makki wanted to try churning his own butter (he would have given up anyway)
> 
> also, whenever makki and mattsun happen to get off work at the same time, they race home. it's their version of keeping things fresh. it's also the only regular exercise they get aside from... you know.


End file.
